The Continuing Leaf
by WatcherChild
Summary: COMPLETE! Chapter 4 - Glorfindel sets foot upon Middle Earth once again - and tries to adjust to the fact that his old world has been replaced by a far newer one. Set after Glorfindel's death and re-embodiment.
1. Changing Winds

The Continuing Leaf

By Watcherchild

Author Note: Happy Birthday Soledad! 

                Ingwë carefully treaded down the silent hallway. Since the sun had not yet risen, most of Taniquetil was still asleep. Even his own wife had protested when he had left their bed early this morning. But today was a special day, and Ingwë needed the silence of the early morning to think. 

                Generally the halls of Taniquetil always brought forth his appreciation and amazement at the work the Vanyar and the Valar had created together. Before his people had come to live here, Manwë and Varda had lived very simply in what basically could have been called a shack at the top of the mountain. But upon the arrival of the Vanyar, the craftsmen and artists had created halls of immense beauty. As the Vanyar generally did not dig deep into the mountains, the halls and buildings rested on the slopes. Taniquetil was very tall, yes, but one side of it sloped more gently than the others, so it was an ideal location for the city.

                The halls of Taniquetil were wide and spacious, and although Taniquetil was a mountain, it did not seem so, for sunlight and moonlight filtered in through the large windows of glass. This was the home of the Vanyar, as well as Manwë and Varda. None of them would suffer to live without their beloved light.

                However, the definition of beloved light had changed over five hundred years ago, when Ungoliant had poisoned the Two Trees. Of all the Eldar, the Vanyar had suffered the most from this, for it had been because of the Two Trees that the Vanyar had left Middle Earth and had later left Tirion.

                Ingwë shook those sad thoughts from his mind. Today was a day of joy, for one of his most favorite people was returning from the Halls of Mandos.

                Glorfindel.

                Waiting for Ingwë in the throne room was none other than Varda Elentari herself. She too was fond of Glorfindel, and it pleased her that he had chosen to leave the confines of the Halls of Mandos.

                Many did not.

                The lady of the stars was tall in physical form. Black of hair, she had chosen to have her eyes be colored the Minil-blue of the Vanyar – before, her eyes had been brown, but upon meeting Ingwë so many years ago, Varda had loved everything about him, and later, his people. 

                To the Ainur, the Quendi represented all that was hallowed in life. The Ainur were not exactly considered living since they never died, and their spirits could never fade, and so as a race, they could not change over time. But the Quendi could, and they were effected by the changes in the earth around them. 

                Varda looked up from her bench to see Ingwë walk in. In her opinion, he was the most beautiful in his race. Tall and golden, he was perhaps the most loyal of all the Eldar.

                Just as she and her husband were loyal to him.

                "Greetings, Elentari." Ingwë inclined his head respectfully. They were the only two people in the vast room. 

                "How goes it with you, High King?" Varda stood and took Ingwë's proffered arm.

                A tiny smile crossed the handsome face. "I was hard-pressed to leave my bed this morning. My wife is still too tempting for me."

                She chuckled. The beautiful high queen was known for her voracious appetite…in everything. "Soon, Friend, soon. But now Mandos awaits us." Quickly they prepared horses, and within moments, both of them were off west. Varda knew that by nature, Mandos was a patient person. Not everyone could live with disembodied spirits and still retain their sanity. Yet today she knew that the stirrings of impatience would well within him, something that had not happened since…since Manwë had forgiven Melkor so many years ago. Mandos had warned against it – he always seemed to be warning against things – but this time, he had warned the Wind Lord with desperation. But Manwë would not be Manwë if he had not forgiven Melkor.

                _Morgoth_, she corrected herself. 

                Her musings were interrupted when they reached his Halls, where the dark-haired Vala was awaiting them. "Greetings to you, my friends. Just on time, I see," he said gravely. 

                After the formalities had been exchanged, for formalities were as much a part of life in Valinor as Yavanna's annoying birds, Mandos led them into his halls. They were constructed of stone, and most of it was inaccessible to all but Nienna and he. But now he was taking Ingwë and Varda to the one place where the living could go – his office. 

                "I had no idea that you had paperwork," quipped Varda. "To be honest, I would think that the dead generated no paperwork at all."

                Ingwë smirked but kept silent. Mandos, giving the high king his best glare, only said, "I prefer to think of it as documentation. "

                "Since when do spirits need documentation?"

                Mandos sniffed. "Bureaucracy is the price that is paid for impartiality." 

                Varda cast both of them amused looks. "I think that we are keeping him waiting."

                Mandos nodded. "Give me one moment." He left, and a moment later, he entered again, this time with a golden-haired man at his side. In appearance, he was similar to Ingwë. Golden-haired and blue-eyed, Glorfindel had been considered stunning in both Vanyarin and Noldorin circles. While his coloring was as golden as his father's kindred, his face was more sharply defined – something inherited from his mother, a lady of the Noldor. He was tall as well, and his stronger build allowed him to blend in easily with his father's people

                Glorfindel looked the same as he did when he left with Fingolfin's host over five hundred years ago. But beyond his beautiful appearance, a strange uncertainly lurked in those eyes, a hesitancy to his steps. Even his bow was not as smooth as it used to be. "My Lady of the Stars, King Ingwë." He looked up then, but his gaze lingered on the king. 

                Varda kissed Glorfindel gently. "How good it is to see you, my dear friend!" She led him to a seat. "I speak honestly when I say that all of us are glad to see you again." She leaned closer to him. "Your family will be overjoyed."

                "My family?" he whispered. If at all possible, even more uncertainty appeared in his eyes. "My sister?"

                "Ar-Kaliel will wait, if you so wish," interjected Mandos gently. It was well known that Glorfindel's elder sister, the tall Ar-Kaliel, had fought with her brother bitterly when he had chosen to follow the Noldor to Middle Earth. Mandos turned to regard the high king standing a bit away from them. "However, King Ingwë cannot."

                Ingwë stepped closer and gave Glorfindel a reassuring smile. "If I may have a moment with him?" Varda nodded and followed Mandos out of the room.

                After they had left, Glorfindel found himself feeling rather wary. It was the safest emotion, for he was not yet prepared for the other emotions that accompanied re-embodiment. Ingwë must have sensed his unease, for he nodded in understanding and took a seat away from him. The two men sat in silence for a while, as they both gathered their thoughts. Finally, "My King," said Glorfindel formally.

                "Ah, but I was never your king, Glorfindel." Ingwë smiled gently again. "You chose Finwë long ago." Glorfindel nodded in understanding, and his thoughts went inward again. He remembered the stunned astonishment of his family when he had chosen to serve Finwë and his family. Glorfindel's own father had awoken soon after Ingwë and was one of his closest advisors. Glorfindel's mother, while a lady of the Noldor, chose to accept her husband's king and culture. And there had been Ar-Kaliel, Ingwë's most devoted vassal. He had not made that decision easily, but he had not been able to deny the fact that his heart had hammered with the same passion that his Noldorin kin had been afflicted with. 

                Ingwë had accepted his decision as gracefully as he did with everything else, but Glorfindel had seen the hurt and sadness in the high king's gaze. Even when Glorfindel had announced that he would travel to Middle Earth, Ingwë had not even tried to dissuade him. Instead, the king had looked at him with his piercingly direct gaze, and all the ancient wisdom and power had struck the helpless Glorfindel at once. He had been awed then, but he had also been confused. Ingwë had tried to tell him something, and Glorfindel had not understood. 

                Was this why Ingwë was here? To finish that unspoken conversation so many years ago? 

                The king spoke. "How are you, Glorfindel?"

                A seemingly simple question, yet it struck chords on so many levels. "My new body is," and here Glorfindel hesitated, "different from my old one."

                "Different?" Ingwë raised his brows. "I had thought that you were restored to your original form."

                "I was." nodded Glorfindel, "To the body I had when I had reached my maturity."

                Ingwë nodded again. "Ah, that body. The body you had before you became a warrior, before it was riddled with scars and hurts, and before it suffered things that should never have been suffered by any living creature."

                _The fire snaked around him and burned him. The heat was more painful than anything else he had ever endured, so hot that his very skin melted off his body._

                Glorfindel shuddered reflexively but kept his expression placid. "All the training I have ever undergone, all the endurance my body has learned – it is all forgotten."

                "Yes, it is. Your new body and your mind must adjust before you can go back to your old condition." Ingwë reached over and placed his hand over Glorfindel's and firmly kept it there.

                The sensations flooded his new body, and Glorfindel fought to keep himself under control. "Forgive me, King Ingwë. It has been many years since I have felt the touch of flesh." Ingwë patted his hand in understanding, for the Valar were not exactly made of flesh but more of the substance of Arda.

                The king removed his hand, but Glorfindel grabbed on to it, for he was reluctant to part with the comfort that the hand had offered. "I thought that we could speak for a while," said Ingwë as he grasped Glorfindel's hand again.

                Tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind his ear, Glorfindel moved closer.

                "I see that you are doing quite well." Ingwë perched right next to him. 

                "Mandos is very thorough." 

                Ingwë chuckled. "I imagine it to be so." The high king fell silent for a while, and then, "I must ask you this, Glorfindel. What are you going to do now?"

                Glorfindel had been dreading this question for a long time. "I do not know," he finally admitted. "I had always imagined myself with – them." There was no need to say whom Glorfindel referred to. "I did not think that it would end so quickly." The lives of his friends had extinguished, one after another. Kingdoms had risen and fallen, kings had come and gone. It had all be so fast. 

                "It has been very fast," Ingwë said, undoubtedly catching Glorfindel's thoughts. "And yet, for some, I do not think it has been fast enough."

                "My lord?" came the query.

                The king looked off into the distance. "This war will be over soon – and I shall tell you how in a moment – but the end of the war signals many things." Ingwë traced the designs on his tunic. "Many of the Noldor in the Halls of Mandos will face judgment, and some will undoubtedly return back to life. But the Teleri are still recovering from their own wounds. I do not know if they are ready to face all of you. And then there are the faithful Noldor. Think you that they are ready to accept you back?"

                Glorfindel closed his eyes. "Then why am I here now?"

                "Your situation is unique. You are neither a Kinslayer nor an innocent. You did disobey the Valar, and yet, your sacrifice to save Turgon's grandson has redeemed you." 

                "I had not thought of it in those terms."

                Ingwë's eyes twinkled. "Of course not. But nevertheless, the outcome is the same. And as I have already said, you situation is unique."

                "Please explain."

                "When you were disembodied, Mandos offered you the option of making that choice again – as to whether you would go back to Middle Earth or not."

                Glorfindel nodded. "I said no."

                Kindness shaped Ingwë's face. "From our earliest days, we Vanyar have believed that lives are immeasurable. A life is like a leaf on a river. It follows the flow of the river, and it changes with the current. As it goes along, it comes into contact with other lives and impacts them, and it will change and form new ones.  And when the leaf finally dies, the life continues on, for it still grows in the memories of the other lives it has touched, until that life is re-embodied again." Ingwë patted Glorfindel's knee. "That is what should have been the case with you."

                The king took Glorfindel's other hand. "But you are still tied to Middle Earth. When you sacrificed your life for those others, you left a part of yourself with them. And without that one part of you – the love that you bore for Turgon and his family – you cannot rejoin the others in Aman."

                "What are you saying?" whispered Glorfindel.

                "Glorfindel, you must return."

                "No." It was said quietly yet firmly. "I will not go back there. It is not allowed. I have died there."

                Ingwë sighed. "I do not want you to go back there either. But I can no more control it than you."

                Desperation crossed his face. "The memories of what happened…no, I cannot."

                "Turgon's line is indebted to you. It is their honor and their right that they repay it."

                "My life does not need protecting," snapped Glorfindel.

                Ingwë smiled. "No, it does not. But the debt I speak of is not restricted to that. I have foresight in some things, Glorfindel, and I know that they will provide for you the healing that you cannot receive here. Can you deny the fact that your loyalty to Turgon still burns within you? Blinding you to all else, even though Mandos is helping you cleanse your spirit?"

                "No." They sat in silence for a while, and then: "You said the war would be over. How?" 

                "In a few years, Eonwë will lead us into war against Morgoth. The Vanyar will be going, as well as the faithful Noldor." Ingwë gripped the hands more tightly. "Understand this. Even if Morgoth is defeated, there is still Sauron and his other followers that must be dealt with. This war will be over, but there will be many more to come."

                Glorfindel released the king's hands. "And you wish for me to go back there?"

                The king's eyes gentled. "Yes. You are different now. Your powers are beyond that of a normal Elf. In fact, you are closer to the Maiar now. They _need_ you." 

                "Are you sending me away because I might give you competition?" asked Glorfindel as he desperately searched for humor.

                "You are more beautiful," admitted the king with a smile. 

                Glorfindel laughed weekly. "My body is still tender. I need to train again."

                "I trained you before, did I not? And I did a very good job of it." Ingwë gave his pupil a proud look. "I am sure we can accomplish that again. You will be even better." 

                But uncertainly still crossed the warrior's face. "I do not know if I am ready to bear weapons again. Or to go near fire. And my memories…I cannot control them."

                Ingwë pulled Glorfindel up. "In time, young one. In time." The king placed his hands on Glorfindel's shoulder. "But now your family awaits you."

Author Notes:

- This is set before the War of Wrath, in between FA 530 – 570. 

- Concerning the Valar: Since they are really spirits who can assume mortal form, it seems to me that they can choose what they look like. That's why Varda gets to change her eye color. 

- Eonwë = Herald of Manwë.

- Like all my stories, this is all purely speculation on my part:)

- So there is this button on the bottom of my page, and it helps you review. I think you need to click it.


	2. Before the Storm

The Continuing Leaf

Chapter Two – Before the Storm

Author Note – A continuation of Soledad's birthday story. This chapter is set before Glorfindel leaves with the Host of the Valar. I just want to add that I drew heavily from the birthday girl's own story, "Sons of Twilight and Starlight." Go read it if you want to understand all the references. Or go read it anyway. 

_Year 580 of the First Age – The Mound of Ezellohar_.

                The Mound was black. 

                It used to be green before, and flowers had grown all around it. The nearby lake used to be a bright, shining blue, and it had been home to many waterfowl. The grove of fruit trees had yielded many a meal to young, adventurous children. 

                Glorfindel remembered the first time that he had come here. His sister had brought him here for his tenth conception anniversary. He had been so amazed then, and he had tried to touch the fruits of Laurelin.

                _"No, little brother! Only Arien the Fire-Maiden can touch Laurelin!" But then Ar-Kaliel had lifted him on her shoulders and had allowed him to touch the much cooler Telperion. _

_                "I like Laurelin," he had insisted. "Laurelin and I are the same color."_

_                Ar-Kaliel laughed. "But then your skin shall light on fire, and you will melt into a little brother puddle."_

                But Glorfindel had melted, although it had not been to the touch of Laurelin. 

                He had come to Ezellohar again with Turgon and Finrod. The three of them had always been an adventurous trio, adventurous enough to cause stress for their parents. During one particular incident, Turgon had built a boat for them, and they had attempted to ride it on the lake. Unfortunately, Finrod had poked a hole in it, and their boating had actually become swimming.

                "Well, I for one think that Yavanna should at least allow benches here." The melodious voice belonged to Amarië, who currently was sitting at the edge of the Mound.

                Glorfindel turned to look at his friend. "Why don't you ask her?"

                She made a face at him. "I did. But she said something about allowing the memories to lay undisturbed." Apparently Yavanna had forbidden everyone, both Eldar and Valar alike, in disturbing Ezellohar. She wished for it to remain a remembrance of what had occurred. It would not do to make Ezellohar beautiful again, even if it were possible. For now the remains of the Two Trees were ugly and twisted, not at all like what they were before.

                "So now your dress will have grass stains on it." Glorfindel wandered back over to where she was sitting.

                Amarië shrugged. "I do not mind."

                "Your white dress," corrected Glorfindel with a smile. He held out a hand, which she accepted gracefully. Slowly they began to walk toward their horses. "Thank you for coming with me."

                She turned kind eyes upon him. "It is no burden that you asked me to bear, Glorfindel. To be honest, I wanted to come here myself. It has been a long time since I have last visited Ezellohar."

                He clasped her hand. "You came with Finrod the last time, did you not?"

                "Aye, I did. It was before…before all that happened." Amarië turned her eyes away from his, and the unspoken thought hung in the air between them. They walked in silence for a while, but as they drew closer to their horse, she turned back to him again, her eyes considerably brighter. "I want you to know, Glorfindel, that I bear no ill will toward you or Finrod. Both of you did what loyalty asked of you."

                "Loyalty has asked too much, methinks."

                She laughed. "As she always does. But I would have followed Ingwë to the very edges of the world if he had asked me. Such is my loyalty to _my king_. Can I then blame you for choosing to follow yours?"

                Glorfindel examined her more closely. She was very tall, as all Vanyarin women were wont. Her hair was a deep gold, a few shades darker than Finrod's had been. And her eyes were the same Minil-blue as the rest of her kin. "You have not asked me about Finrod yet."

                She turned those eyes upon him. "And what shall I ask? I know that he has done valorous deeds, and I know that he was a king. And I know that he died for his loyalty to a mortal." 

                He searched for bitterness in her voice but found none. As they mounted their horses, he said quietly, "The mortal's father, Barahir, saved Finrod's life."

                "And Finrod was honor bound to do what he did. It is no less than what any honorable person would have done." Sadness veiled her face. "And as you well know, there is no escape from the bonds of honor."

                "Honor. Too much honor leads to things more unpleasant, I think." He remembered what his sister had told him long ago. _There are four codes that must define you. Duty. Loyalty. Faith. Honor. Without them, you are nothing_. That lesson had been the core of every Elven child, but it had been the lifeblood of the Vanyar. "As warriors, we think of a glorious death. But there is a problem with dying with honor."

                "You need to die to do it," finished Amarië quietly.

                Glorfindel nodded. "And sometimes I think that as much as an honorable death – that all of us had – was a good thing, a happy and peaceful life would have been better. And if I had to die, I would have like to die in the presence of loved ones." _Not with a balrog_, he added silently.

                "I think that you would have been happier as a mortal," she said with a smile. "Now, this conversation is becoming decidedly too morbid. How is your training going?"

                He groaned. "Ingwë has not changed! He is as demanding as he ever was."

                She laughed. "As always! There is a reason why he is the best warrior still!" She sent him a curious look. "But you have spent much time with the Maiar, as of late. Particularly with Eonwë."

                His cheeks took on a slightly red hue. "He is excellent at arms."

                She slowed her horse. "Is it true, Glorfindel, that you are now closer to a Maiar? Are you any different?"

                "I am stronger," he admitted. "And my powers of perception have increased." His eyes grew inward. "The meaning of time has changed for me." But then his voice grew quiet. "I am greater than what I used to be, but at the same time, I am also diminished." When Amarië gave him a confused look, he elaborated. "Before, I had the possibilities of choice – to disobey the Valar, to leave Aman, to do _wrong_. What little part of fate that I could control, I did. But now, I am able to do none of those things. I do not think that I could serve Morgoth even if I tried." His eyes grew wistful. "Do not misunderstand me, Amarië. I do not wish to do evil – far from it. But what disturbs me is that I cannot make that choice any longer. I am good now, and pure. All that was marred within me is gone." 

                Far away on Taniquetil, Eonwë and Ingwë sat in quiet discussion. Manwë's herald had come seeking advice from the high king, on both matters of war and on Glorfindel. To the Maia, Glorfindel's forced return to Middle Earth seemed unjust, and he did not hesitate in telling the high king so. "He is happy now, and he seeks to dwell in peace. Why must he go back then, to the place where his body and spirit suffered so much hurt?"

                The king looked troubled. "It is no wish of mine that he return to those lands."

                "Was there any need, then, to tell him so early? This decision was forced upon him as soon as he was re-embodied. It could have waited." 

                "If we had not told him, then he would have gone into seclusion somewhere, and he would not have learned the arts of war again." Ingwë looked off into the distance. "Understand this, Herald. I love Glorfindel as a son, and I would rather have him stay by my side, as any son remains with the father. But Glorfindel chose another alliance, and he is still bound by that oath. He may be content here for now, but his heart shall forever look eastward. His unhappiness here will only grow until he begins to resent us."

                Eonwë gave the king a sharp look. "Perhaps you assume to much, High King." Eonwë was edging dangerous territory, and his words bordered upon the offensive. He was the herald of Manwë, but Ingwë was the High King of the Elves. 

                Ingwë's eyes flashed as well, and Eonwë was caught by the anger that lurked within them. "You forget yourself, Herald. The bonds of honor are not easily broken. In time, he will feel its call." The king's voice softened slightly. "But yes, perhaps we should have waited a while longer. 'Tis a heavy burden we have placed upon him."

                "You have interests in Middle Earth as well," stated Eonwë flatly.

                "You imply that I have a personal interest in his return?" The king chuckled. "I will not deny that Glorfindel's return to Middle Earth is advantageous. My sister-daughter's descendents are there now, and not a day goes by that I do not think of them." Ingwë stood gracefully and went to the fire. "And the descendents of Turgon are related to me, however indirectly. But I assure you that when I say his return is advantageous, it is advantageous for all Elves."

                Eonwë nodded thoughtfully. "He will be valuable."

                The king pursed his lips. "Undoubtedly so. He is twice-born, and there are few now that can contend with his will."

                "And if he dies again?"

                The king hesitated. "I do not know." Mandos had not revealed the fate of those who died twice. It was a subject too bizarre and improbable, for once an Elf was re-embodied, they were forbidden to return to Middle Earth. And since there was no death in Valinor, at least since the Kinslaying, it had never occurred anyone to ask Mandos. 

                "It is easy for you to send him off to death then."

                "Not anymore easier than sending off my own son," replied the king sharply. "Ingil will also be accompanying you."

                "But he will return! Glorfindel will not. He will be a prisoner there." Eonwë calmed himself. Ingwë was the last person that he would ever imagine provoking, and yet now he could not seem to help it. "Forgive me, High King. That was not warranted."

                Ingwë also seemed to calm down slightly. "Perhaps it is the impending war that is fraying our sanity," he said gently. "We should return to our earlier discussion. Who will accompany you?"

                The return to military matters filled Eonwë with confidence again. "The high prince, of course. He will be leading the Vanyar – the bulk of the host. He has also agreed to serve as my aide. Finarfin has agreed to send some of his own people to fight on one condition."

                "And that is?"

                "That he lead them."

                The king hissed. "I do not think that is wise. Finarfin has too many personal interests in Middle Earth." Finarfin's children had followed Fëanor's call, and now all his sons were dead. Only Artanis remained alive.

                Eonwë shrugged. "He knows his duties, and he is a good warrior. Pacifist he may be, he is certainly good with his knives."

                Ingwë ran a hand through his hair. War making was tiring, after all. "And the Teleri? I take it that they did not respond to my invitation for war very well?"

                "No," said the herald. "According to Olwë, they are still recovering from their wounds. After much pleading, they agreed to lend us their ships, but they will set no foot upon the shores of Middle Earth."

                The king's eyes grew sad. "I wonder if the Teleri will ever recover." Then he asked, "Telimekhtar is going, is he not?"

                "Tulkas is sending his son off with much fervor," smiled the Maia. "After all, Tulkas himself is rather hot-blooded, if such a term can be applied to us." Eonwë leaned forward. "What capacity shall Glorfindel serve, if any at all?"

                A hint of humor appeared in the king's eyes. "I dare say that you would be hard-pressed in keeping him from the battle. However, perhaps he would be better suited as your own herald?" 

                "I will take care of him," promised Eonwë.

                The king barked out a laugh. "Or perhaps he will take care of you. You will be restricted to a body, my friend."

                The herald waved that comment away. "If Melian can do it, then I am sure I can as well."

                "And in conclusion, I think that it is an excellent location to build a new bridge." The speaker, a Vanya whose enthusiasm for construction rivaled that of the Noldor, was brimming with excitement.

                However, the king listening to him was not. "You plan is an excellent one, Arenar. But do we really need another bridge?"

                "Of course!" exclaimed Arenar with the tiniest bit of indignation. "You can't have too many places to cross a river." The engineer then launched into a detailed explanation of why having that bridge was such a good idea. Seated in front of him, Ingwë pretended to nod his head, although he was secretly counting all the engraved flowers on Arenar's robes. In his perusal, the king noticed that Arenar's tunic did not exactly match his leggings or his robe. _He is an engineer, after all. I should be glad he came here dressed!_ "So yes, that crossing is a necessity," finished Arenar. 

                He sighed. "Then you have my blessings."

                "Thank you, High King!" With a jaunty wave, the engineer bounced out of the room. 

                Ingwë turned to look at his golden-haired aide. "Who is next to torture me, Sidra?"

                She smothered a smile. "The next person who seeks an audience with you is Lord Glorfindel."

                Surprise flashed across Ingwë's face, and then caution. "He isn't here to speak to me about flower gardens, is he? Because if he is, I will throw him out."

                "He is a Balrog-slayer, my lord."

                "And I am a very tired and bored high king."

                "Yes, my lord." Sidra rose from her seat. "I will go and summon him inside." 

                A few moments later, Sidra appeared again with a golden-haired man at her side. "King Ingwë," he bowed gracefully, much more gracefully than he had done when he had first been re-embodied. _He is much more comfortable with his new body now_. Ingwë examined the young lord in front of him. "What do you think, Sidra? I think he looks better when he wears red. Gray does not suit him." 

                She frankly appraised the Balrog-slayer. "Yes, gray makes his complexion pale." 

                His cheeks reddened as he turned to Ingwë's aide. "I was pale before?"

                She smirked and allowed her eyes to drop teasingly before answering. "From what I have heard."

                "I think lady, that I shall have to show you first-hand that I am not pale…there." 

                Pleased that Glorfindel had regained some of his old sense of humor, Ingwë chuckled. "Please do so later, out of my sight." He embraced Glorfindel. "Let us go on a walk, you and I." Giving Sidra an apologetic look, the king said, "It is his therapeutic session." Glorfindel and Sidra exchanged amused looks.

                Sidra held up several sheets of paper. "What about the rest of your visitors?"

                "Oh, them." Ingwë absently waved a hand toward the offending sheets of paper. "You can take care of that business."

                Sidra gave the king a horrified look. "I am not the High King."

                Ingwë gently propelled her to his chair. "Strange, I see a High King sitting right here." Giving her a small bow, he pulled Glorfindel out, leaving his poor aide to the masses.  

                The two men strolled down the wide hallways of Taniquetil. "That was quite cruel, my lord."

                "She needs to learn all that business anyway." Ingwë led Glorfindel toward his private garden. "How was your visit to Ezellohar?"

                "It went as well as can be expected. I have many memories from that place." Here his voice grew uncertain. "But I fear that they are not as clear as before." They entered the small garden, and distantly Ingwë realized that the garden was the same as it had been long before the Two Trees had been poisoned. Glorfindel sat on a bench made of stone, but Ingwë comfortably sat on the grass. A memory came to him suddenly, of the day when Finwë had first visited him here. _"Why is it that you Vanyar in your white clothes always sit on the grass, and yet your clothes never get stained? Is that a sign that Ilúvator favors you?" _How long ago that had been!

                He was brought back to the present when Glorfindel cleared his throat. "Ah, your memories." Ingwë crossed his legs. "You will find that the memories of your past life will dim over time. You will always remember, of course, but they will not be as vibrant as before." He gave Glorfindel a tender look. "There are some memories of yours that are perhaps best left faded."

                Glorfindel nodded sadly. "I will not be sad to forget the scent of burning flesh. But there are some things I wish I did remember. At the Mound today, I was able to recall old memories, such as my first visit to the Two Trees. Previously, I had always been able to recall the scent of my sister's hair and the strength in her arms." His voice grew despondent. "But today I realized that I remembered none of it. And then my memories of my friends – they are almost blurred."

                "You have a new body now, Glorfindel, and so you must make new memories. But your spirit will still retain vestiges of your old ones." 

                They sat quietly for a while, and in the privacy of his thoughts, Glorfindel secretly watched the high king. Ingwë was beautiful, and yet there was something more to the most ancient of the ancient Elves, something in his eyes that drew all to him. He was the undisputed king of all the Elves, a fact that not even Fëanor had questioned – and Fëanor had questioned everything. Even in Middle Earth, Glorfindel remembered that the Moriquendi had revered Ingwë. And that was the strange part, for most of the Moriquendi had never met Ingwë. This meant that Ingwë's reputation still existed from the Awakening, and it must have been quite a reputation for Ingwë to be placed on a pedestal that was almost as high as Varda's. 

                What was it about Ingwë, then, that caused people to worship him?

                Glorfindel remembered stories his parents would exchange about the journey to Valinor. The firstborn rarely spoke of those days at Cuivienen, and even when they did, it was with hushed whispers and pained looks. The journey to Valinor had been a hard one, and only by sheer will did they arrive. Ingwë had ensured that his entire host had arrived whole, thereby playing homage to their original name, the Minyar.

                But he could not bring himself to ask. It was a question that would provide knowledge too expensive. He knew that he could not afford to have Ingwë fall from the pedestal that Glorfindel himself had placed him on. Not all was innocence in the beautiful high king, and in those deep blue depths, there lurked a terrible wisdom, ancient in its power. 

                Thankfully his musings were interrupted by the high queen. "Ah, there you are, Ingwë." She glided over to her errant husband. "I came across a very hassled aide of yours." Humor appeared in her eyes. "Should I call her king now?" 

                "Well," began Ingwë uncertainly. "You see, Glorfindel needed me."

                She turned to the Elf in question. "He always does that."

                "Do what?" Indignation colored the king's voice.

                "Seek excuses. Admit it, you did not want to go to court today."

                "I did."

                "You did not. You woke with a decidedly foul temper this morning, and you cursed your throne." 

                Glorfindel shook his head in amusement. The king and the queen had to be the silliest creatures in Aman.

                Ingwë stood and eyed his wife. "I was in a foul temper because a certain person, who happens to be my wife, is going to Tol Eressëa and leaving her own husband behind."

                They had completely forgot that Glorfindel was also in the garden.

                "I am going to visit our granddaughter. Did I stop you from accompanying me?"

                "But Arenar is going to build a bridge!"

                Her eyes turned curious. "Do we really need another bridge?"

                Ingwë shrugged. "That is what Arenar says." But then a completely different expression crossed the king's face. "There is a way that my temper can recover."

                "Oh?" Interest colored the queen's voice.

                Glorfindel stood. "If your majesties will excuse me, I must leave."

                They ignored him.

                "So I will leave now." Glorfindel, realizing that his words were falling on deaf ears, shrugged and left behind two enamored Elves. 

Some Notes:

- The Mound of Ezellohar was the location of the Two Trees before Ungoliant poisoned them.

- Much of this story revolves around the _Book of Lost Tales_. Telimektar is the son of Tulkas, and with Ingil son of Ingwë, they chased Morgoth.

- Eonwë = herald of Manwë.

- Moriquendi – the Elves who didn't go to Valinor when the Valar summoned them.

- I am waiting for the opportunity to do a fic with Ingwë and his wife. The possibilities…

- Next chapter: Our boy goes off to war. But if you want to read about it, you better start reviewing. Or else Glorfindel will never make it to Middle Earth, which means he can't face down Angmar and rescue Frodo in the third age, which means that the Nazgul will be eating Hobbit and Ranger stew, and Sauron will be laughing at all the Elves again. So I guess it's a good idea if you review. 


	3. Of Promises Made

The Continuing Leaf – Of Promises Made

_There was a storm brewing, without a doubt, and moreover a storm which had been so long foretold would be all the more violent when it did come._

– C.S. Forrester, Horatio Hornblower.

Year 583 of the First Age 

                "These are fast ships." This particular comment came from a slender Telerin Shipmaster, who stood alongside Finarfin, King of the Noldor. "Their design is such that the ships do not part the water. The water parts for the ships." But then his voice dropped slightly. "Of course, nothing can ever replace our beautiful Swanships, which were burnt by…them."

                Finarfin nodded slowly, for he understood whom it was that the Shipmaster referred to. It also did not escape the king's notice that the Shipmaster expressed his grief over the destruction of the Swanships instead of the Kinslaying. Obviously it was something that the Teleri had not come to grips with yet. "Shipmaster, you have my eternal gratitude, as well as King Ingwë's, for agreeing to ferry us across the Belegaer."

                "'Twas King Olwë's request, my lord." The Shipmaster allowed his eyes to rest upon the polished brow of the nearest ship. "Had it been our way, we would never go back there." For the Shipmaster was of the ancient, and in the days of his youth, he had been a friend to Cirdan. Briefly Finarfin wondered if the two old friends had not already communicated; it mattered not anymore, for in a week's time, they would lay eyes upon each other again.

                Their conversation was interrupted by Ingil's aide, Ar-Kaliel. Elder sister to Glorfindel, she was Ingwë's most devoted vassal. Tall and strong, she could never be considered beautiful, but she was very arresting. But aside from that, she was also a devoted warrior, and she could be trusted in all matters. "My lord king, Shipmaster," she greeted politely. "Lord Ingil has asked me to commence the boarding of our supplies."

                The Shipmaster inclined his head. "By all means, warrior. My own people shall assist you." He beckoned several mariners, and within moments, the docks were a flurry of activity. 

                The two men watched for a few more moments, and then Finarfin touched the Shipmaster's shoulder lightly. "Regardless of whether King Olwë ordered you or not, I am still grateful. I know how much this is costing you and your mariners." The sincerity shone in Finarfin's clear blue eyes, and the Shipmaster's countenance softened slightly.

                "As it is costing you, no doubt." His silver hair floated in the breeze as the golden rays of the sun made it gleam all the more brightly. 

                The words echoed in Finarfin's mind. _As it is costing you…as it has already cost my brothers and my sons. As it is costing my daughter right now_.

                Far away on Taniquetil, Ingwë pensively sat on a bench in his garden. On this particular day, his heart was very heavy, for he would soon be parting with two sons – one of flesh and the other of heart.  Ingwë had originally planned to lead the Vanyar himself, but it had been Mandos who had cautioned against it. As the Vala had said, Ingwë would be needed here after the war. The Valar had agreed to pardon many of the exiles, and undoubtedly some would return, along with many of the Moriquendi. And Ingwë, as High King, would be needed to welcome and reassure them. 

                The other point had been that if Ingwë died, the Eldar would fall into even more chaos. There was no replacement for Ingwë. Ingil, while an excellent warrior, was not so excellent a politician, Olwë was too wrapped up in the turmoil of his own people, and Finarfin was simply too inexperienced. If Finwë still remained alive, then he would have been a possible replacement.

                But then again, if Finwë still remained alive, many things would not have happened.

                A voice interrupted his thoughts. "Friend, you seem to be brooding."

                "If the superior powers of the Aratar include stating the obvious, I find myself gravely concerned," replied Ingwë dryly. 

                Manwë chuckled. "There are other observations I could make, but perhaps it is not the best time." Taking a seat next to Ingwë, Manwë continued. "Why are you not in Alqualondë right now? They will be departing soon – the next morn, I think."

                The king shrugged. "I will get there before they leave. But I would rather remain here until the last moment."

                "You wish to go with them." The statement fell flatly from Manwë's mouth.

                "Not to live there," laughed the king. Sobering, he added, "But the blood fever has not yet left my veins, even after so many years."

                The Vala stilled. "Ingwë, our friendship is something so deep that it almost is a spiritual bond. But there are some things that you have never revealed to me, things that you have kept hidden." He gazed into the blue depths of his friend's eyes. "My life has always been open to you, from the time I joined the Music to the last decision I made. Now will you not share yourself with me?"

                Ingwë fidgeted slightly, something that the graceful king rarely did. "You once asked me why I did not condemn Fëanor for leaving Middle Earth." 

                "You never answered."

                "I will now." Ingwë stretched out his legs. "People assume that the Vanyar remained behind because we regard the Valar as our masters. But that assumption is wrong. We have chosen to stay in Valinor because we wish to, just as the Noldor wished to leave. Life in Valinor appeals to us, and we greatly love the companionship of the Valar." The king continued, "But I am the king of my people, and their loyalty is to me, just as mine is to them. That loyalty is of a different sort than the loyalty that we feel toward you."

                Manwë looked slightly puzzled. "Then how is it different?"

                The king smiled gently. "The loyalty we feel toward you is one of our own choosing. If we so wished, we could have been loyal to Morgoth."

                The Vala smiled as he pictured the beautiful king serving Morgoth. "His temper was always unbalanced."

                "But the loyalty among our people for each other supersedes any other bond that we have made. That is why we still remain together. The only exception is Elenwë, wife to Turgon – and that is only because Turgon himself was very like-minded to us."

                "But then Feanor?"

                Ingwë nodded. "Fëanor was only exercising the same right that we did to make our own choices. I cannot defend his later actions, but I do understand why he left. Life in Valinor is not blessed for everyone."

                Manwë digested this slowly. While he did not deny the fact that his friend had a point, it still hurt him to think so. "Then why live in Valinor?"

                "Because we remember the days when we still dwelt on Middle Earth." Ingwë paused, and then, "And that is what we fear – those early days." The king exhaled slowly. "And I shall tell you why."

                Ingwë did not speak for a long time, and Manwë patiently allowed the king to gather his thoughts. Finally, "When I first awoke, I did not know who I was, or indeed, what I was. I did not know what to do, whether to eat or sleep. How could I?" He turned to Manwë. "Can you imagine what it is like not to know _anything_?" The pain was still raw in the king's voice.

                "In the beginning, I was very much alone. The rest of my people still had not woken, so I wandered the lakeshores. It is strange – those early days are very blurry to me, and I, who remember everything acutely, cannot remember what it was like to sate my hunger and thirst for the first time. I knew no cold or heat, and I was nude the entire time. Shame and modesty were concepts that had not occurred to me."

                "But what I do remember clearly is the first creature I spoke with. It was a duck, you see, and it was waddling about on the shore. I was so lonely, and in my desire for companionship, I beckoned it to me. The duck approached me in a friendly manner, and it began to quack. I assumed that the duck's language was also my own, and so I began to mimic it."

                "I spent the next several days quacking, and once I knew enough, I decided to speak with other creatures as well. The duck came with me, and together we ventured into the forests around the lake." 

Manwë snorted with laughter but otherwise remained silent. Ingwë quacking?

                "We came upon several creatures – birds, rabbits, deer – but none could understand us. It was then that I discovered that each species had its own way of communicating. So I began to wonder what mine was. However, as I was making these discoveries, a wolf appeared in front of us. The wolf was hungry, and since I was a far harder prey to kill, it attacked my friend instead."

"And once the duck was dead, I knew my first rage. In my anger, which I had never experienced before and thus had never learned to control, I jumped at the wolf and killed it with my bare hands. After it was dead, I realized that I had sustained my first injuries."

                "Afterwards, I remember thinking how intoxicating the blood was – the scent, feel, smell – of my blood combined with the wolf's. I wanted to kill _more_."

                Ingwë paused again, and then: "I knew no morals, and I did not interpret the sad feeling within my breast for what it was."

                "And I shed tears, although I did not know why. Beyond that, the wolf changed many things for me. I ate the meat and took its skin for clothing, and I used its bones as instruments."        

                Ingwë stopped, and Manwë eyed him with concern. "You need not continue, Friend. I can see how much pain this is causing you."

                The golden-haired king shook his head. "No, I will finish my tale." He took another deep breath. "After a while, the other Minyar awoke, and I was very happy. I remember that the first person I embraced was the woman who would later become my wife."

                "The High Queen." Manwë's voice held genuine fondness.

                "Indeed." Ingwë's voice grew soft as he thought back to that moment. "Among us, we crafted a primitive sort of language that would not evolve until the Tatyar awoke." Ingwë laughed mirthlessly. "Iluvatar may have provided us with life, but he certainly did not provide us with anything else. We built huts, made clothing, and learned how to cook. My wife made the first weapon – a wooden spear. I remember watching her use it upon a bear. The blood flowed out of the wound, and it cried out in pain. The noise made me sad again, and slowly we began to realize the cost of hurting others: that we would end up hurting ourselves."

                "The years passed slowly. We knew no time, save by the movement of the stars. The Tatyar and Nelyar still had not awakened, and so we dwelt alone. But the evil around the lake was terrible, and we were very frightened. Everyone among us became hunters. We made no distinction between man and woman other than in times of mating. We simply did not have that luxury. We were too few, and the evil was too great. But we kept by each other at all times, and never did we wander beyond our established territory."

                "The other tribes can never understand the terror of those early days. They awoke to the Minyar greeting them and telling them what to do. I remember when Finwë first awakened; he knew nothing. Yet he was nurtured and taken care of until he could survive on his own. We watched over them and protected them, and while they refined many things, such as weapons and language, they never had the burden of creating it. And they never suffered from being alone."

                Ingwë stopped and looked at his companion. "Those years were terrible, and we Vanyar have seen far too much to believe that we can find happiness there again. Through the generations, we have passed down the stories of horror to our children so that they know what their forefathers and foremothers suffered."

                "We may dwell in Valinor as a merry, happy people, eager to learn all that the Valar can teach us, but that happiness came at a very large price. To know true joy one must endure true suffering – the suffering of knowing nothing. Perhaps if the Noldor or Teleri had undergone the same thing, their fates might have been far different."

                Manwë covered Ingwë's hand with his own. "We tried to find you, Ingwë. We tried so very hard. Oromë and Yavanna would wander the lands of Middle Earth to search for the Firstborn. If it had been up to me, I would have greeted you myself."

                Ingwë smiled sadly. "But then I would later have resented you. Because of my experiences, I understand the value of what it is that you offered my people and me."

                "Then the Noldor and Teleri?"

                "The Teleri have found peace in the oceans, just as we have found peace on Taniquetil. But the Noldor still retained their restlessness." The king sighed. "If the truth were to be told, at times I feel that restlessness as well. It is hard for me to dissociate myself from what I used to be. As I said, the bloodlust is still within my veins."

                Manwë chuckled. "So that is why your people still insist on training as warriors – not to fight but simply to control the passion."

                "Yes, although right now, the Vanyar will certainly be going as warriors. Surely it occurred to you why the host of the Valar consists mostly of Vanyar, the race mostly involved in singing and dancing."

                The Vala nodded. "I did wonder that." In a change of topic, Manwë then asked, "Will you be taking your grandchildren with you to say goodbye to Ingil?"

                "No, they said goodbye earlier. I would prefer that they also not be overcome with a burning desire to go battle Morgoth." Ingwë stood. "I suppose that I should depart now, for knowing Eonwë, he will leave exactly one time." He gave the Vala an annoyed look. "Really Manwë, must your herald be so prompt?"

                Manwë covered his eyes as laughter overcame him. "Promptness is not a bad quality. It would do you well to learn from him."

                "I may be tardy at times, but once I get to my destination, I devote my full attention to all things. You, on the other hand, sit through meetings and festivals pretending to listen, but you are actually flirting with Lady Varda."

                "But no one knows," countered Manwë. "All my flirting occurs through the link I share with my wife."

                Ingwë gave him an exasperated glance. "I can offer no more comments, for your herald is most likely counting down the time." 

                "Goodbye Ingwë!" laughed the Vala.

                Ingwë stealthily entered Alqualondë. Generally he did not go through such lengths to avoid people, but if someone found him, then a banquet would occur. 

                Eonwë would not accept that as an excuse. 

                Thankfully he was dressed as all the other warriors – in a leather tunic and breeches. His golden hair fell in a thick braid down his back, and small knives were strapped at his waist. He would be unrecognized as long as no one saw his face.

                Keeping his face down, he hurried past several docks as he sought for Eonwë's ship. With Eonwë would ride Glorfindel. Finarfin would ride with his own people, and Ingil and Ar-Kaliel would be on another ship, for in case the ships were attacked, not all the ranking officers would perish at once.

                Eonwë's ship was named _Star Chaser_, a lovely ship crafted of strong wood. It was long and wide, and it could hold approximately two hundred warriors and their equipment. The primary weapons of the Noldor were swords and bows, but the Vanyar preferred twin daggers and spears. Supplies such as medicine were also being taken in large amounts, for no one truly knew the condition of the Elven colonies in Middle Earth, nor the amount of damage the Host of the Valar would incur.

                "Ah, there you are, High King." Ingwë looked up to see his son standing at near the ship's mast.

                "Why aren't you on your own ship?" asked the king as he walked up the gangplank. 

                Ingil shrugged. "We are having a meeting before we set sail." Mischief crossed his face. "The Herald will be pleased to see you."

                The king raised his brows. "Why don't you take me to him, and we can both see whether he will be pleased or not." Ingil nodded and led his sire to a room below decks. Inside were several people, including a horrified Finarfin, an amused Glorfindel and Ar-Kaliel, an annoyed Eonwë, and a cheeky Sidra. Ingwë leaned toward his son. "Why does Sidra have that expression on her face? I have seen it before, and it is a portent of danger."

                Ingil smiled. "Sidra apparently saw Eonwë unclothed in his physical form. She has not stopped teasing the Herald about it."

                "If she is not careful, Eonwë will leave her behind in Middle Earth, and then I will have to find a new aide." 

                "Father! That is terrible." But the humor shone in Ingil's eyes as well.

                It was then that the Herald looked up. Giving them a scowl, he invited the king to sit. "We are almost ready to leave. We only wait for the rising of the sun."

                "Do not leave without any clothes," quipped Ingwë. 

                Eonwë sputtered while the rest of the company dissolved into laughter. Finarfin shook his head in mock sadness. "If the hope of Middle Earth is gathered at this table, I think that we would do them a better service to remain here."

                Ingwë became serious. "The other Valar and Olwë have blessed this journey, and now I have come to offer my blessings."

                The Herald's face softened. "It would be most welcome, High King." The room grew quiet as Ingwë began to speak softly. Later, most would not remember what exactly it was that the high king had said, but they would remember that sincerity that had rung in his golden tones.

                Afterwards, Ingwë went around the room and quietly said goodbye to everyone. When he reached his son and Ar-Kaliel, Ingwë's eyes had glistened. Then he pulled Glorfindel aside. "I would have some words with you 'ere you leave."

                "Of course," replied Glorfindel, too experienced to allow his surprise to show on his face. He led the king back to the death, empty of all sailors. "It is quiet here, High King."

                Ingwë unstrapped the knives from his waist. "I wanted to give these to you." He placed the two daggers in Glorfindel's hands. The sheaths were black and inlaid with Elvish runes. The blades were of fine quality steel, and the grip was strong and firm. The knives were simple, for no ornament decorated them. "These are mine, from long ago. I did not craft them myself, but our Swordmaster did, long ago."

                "I cannot take this, King." Glorfindel's eyes shone with pain. "I am not worthy of such a thing. As you said, I am not even your subject, and you are not my king."

                "Glorfindel, you have no king anymore, especially since both Finwë and Turgon are dead. And perhaps I am taking too many liberties, but I wish for you to have them." He flashed the stunned warrior a smile. "The Noldor may make superior swords, and the Sindar may have better bows, but the Vanyar will always have the best knives. I want you to have the best of everything, Glorfindel."

                "Ingil?"

                Ingwë waved that away. "Ingil has me – he does not need my knives. Besides, I do not think he would understand their significance." He lightly ran his finger down the flat side of the blade. "These knives have never shed blood before, for steel-making was not a skill we possessed until we arrived in Aman." He closed his hands around Glorfindel's. "Take care of them, Glorfindel, and put them to use, for they will never be used here." Glorfindel nodded mutely. "Remember, accept adversity and use it to grow stronger. Life is not always fair." The king embraced him then. "I am going to leave now, and I suspect that our next meeting will be a long time in coming."

                Glorfindel, his eyes deepened in its sadness, lovingly cradled the two knives. "I will be alone there." He did not need to explain his words, for no one on Middle Earth was as Glorfindel, none so like him as Ingwë and the Maiar.

                "You will have others to draw support from – Artanis, Ereinion, Cirdan most of all." Ingwë caressed Glorfindel's cheek. "But your path shall always be a lonely one until you return here to us. You will find a purpose there, however."

                "I cannot be evil at least," Glorfindel quipped as he desperately searched for humor. 

                The king looked off into the distance. "You are not marred, but that does not mean that you will not mistakes. Those choices shall always be yours. But your heart cannot be swayed as easily anymore, and should you choose to do evil, you will be very good at it." He focused his ancient eyes back upon the warrior. "I can offer no more comfort to you unless I lie."

                Glorfindel straightened. "That is all the comfort I require."

                Ingwë backed down the gangplank. "May Varda's stars always light your path, and may Manwë's winds speed you to your destination." Glorfindel echoed the Vanyarin phrase as he watched the retreating figure of the High King. How long he stood there, he did not know. 

                He was roused when Eonwë finally bellowed out a call to set sail.

Author Notes:

- All the events of Ingwë's Awakening are conjecture of course. I am using the premise that Ingwë awoke first. (See _The Road to Middle Earth_).

- Ingwë quacking? Why not?

- Final chapter: Glorfindel arrives in Middle Earth, has tea with Oropher (and gets into a lot of trouble), and slowly adjusts to life again. 


	4. New Beginnings

The Continuing Leaf – Of Promises Made

Author note: Completed, over a month after Soledad's birthday…but to make up for that, I put in a special tea scene at her request :) 

Year 583 of the First Age 

                He was crouched upon the battlefield; around him, bodies lay littered as leaves in a forest. Orcs, Elves, Men – in death, all were allies. 

                He had been at this spot for several hours as he searched for his knives. The last time he had seen them, they were imbedded in a pair of Orcs, but just as he had been about to pull them out, he had been pushed aside by another wave of fighting. 

                Glorfindel could not contemplate leaving his knives behind. The first lesson a young warrior learned was the care of arms. _Always keep them polished enough so that you need no mirror. Keep them sharp enough so that at a touch, they draw blood. Never leave them behind, or you will leave yourself behind as well_. Those lessons, taught at the knees of his father, remained fresh in his memories. He remembered that his father had shown him his own knives – knives of cold steel with cruel, jagged blades. Glorfindel had been allowed to touch the edge of the knife, and from that wound, he had bled profusely – an excellent example of how knives should be kept. 

                He remembered the first life he had taken. His sister had taken him hunting, and at her command, he had slain his first deer. The power of the moment, the sight of the blood on the knife and on his hands, had been intoxicating. How delicate life had become since then, how important. The doe, a beautiful creature with tawny skin and sweet eyes, had fallen under the cold steel of his own knives. 

                The knowledge of death was the price that had been paid for the knowledge of life, and it had released him from true innocence. Afterwards, his sister had tried to teach him that very important lesson. _Death is the most hateful thing. Do not allow the destruction of what you can never replace. That is why one must be careful in life. _But Glorfindel, who had been filled with the confidence of youth, had dismissed the idea as inappropriate in Valinor. After all, Elves were not supposed to die.

                But they had. 

                Beginning with Finwë at Formenos, to Alqualondë, to the shores of Middle Earth itself, to the very edges of the Crissaegrim (1), the lesson had come back to haunt Glorfindel. 

                When he had been reborn, it had seemed like a new opportunity to take back the innocence that had been stolen from him, to walk among the Eldar with hands that had never been coated with blood. He had hoped to learn those important lessons again, really learn them. But such had not been the case, for today, he had taken his first life again.

                _The dark blood covered the silver blades, and he stood there, feeling the blood trickle down his hands to his wrists, and finally to his arms. It was so very warm, a strange thing, for one would almost expect Orcs to be cold-blooded. But then he was bleeding too, and his blood mingled with that of his victim. Warm blood everywhere, and his knives were not silver any longer, and like him, they were no longer innocent_.

                He needed to find his knives – the one thing that had changed with him. And although he was covered in so much blood that none of his features were distinguishable anymore, he would not leave without them. 

                Shaking his head, he began to look through the bodies again.

                Early one morning, only a few days after the final fate of the last Fëanorians (2) had taken place, Glorfindel had bid his comrades goodbye. Ingil would be returning with most of his host, and many exiles would be accompanying them. With Ingil would leave Ar-Kaliel, Glorfindel's sister. Their farewell had been bittersweet, all the more because it was their second. But brother and sister were stern at heart, and both looked forward to the future. But some of the host was staying behind, including Inglor (3) and his wife. This made Glorfindel feel much better, for at least he would not have to adjust to Middle Earth alone.

                But when the time had come for him to be parted from Eonwë, Glorfindel found himself wishing otherwise. For while Eonwë would be remaining behind (4) to help the loyal Second born with their newly founded kingdom, he would not return back to the lands of Middle Earth. From Numenor, Eonwë would sail straight back to Valinor. In the herald, he had found the promise of fulfillment – something that would have to wait years uncounted before it came to fruition. 

                Yet the parting was not so much bitter but more sadly poignant. And perhaps due to his enhanced powers, Glorfindel had been able to keep the memories of one touch burning as a flame within the recesses of his heart.

                After he left the war camp, he began to ride toward where Cirdan was located (5). As he traveled, he passed by many groups of refugees, all fleeing from the destruction of Beleriand. Thankfully the sons of Eärendil had been found safe, or else Glorfindel's vow would have been for naught. It was during his travels that he convinced a lone Nandorin Elf to act as his guide – not so much because he was needed but because the Elf was hungry and homeless, thus being able to accept food from Glorfindel without losing any pride.

                Currently they were at the southern seacoasts of what had once been the green lands of Ossiriand.  "That is the Hill of Himring," (6) said the guide. The object he was pointing at was an island far off shore. "Lord Maedhros had a fortress there, but it was destroyed. And now that Beleriand is flooded…" The Elf trailed off and then sighed softly. "My heart grieves at the destruction that was inflicted upon these lands. But such was the price that needed to be paid." 

Next to him, Glorfindel remained silent. After watching kingdoms fall for most of the First Age, Glorfindel found that he was able to view the destruction of Beleriand with a little bit of apathy. He was sad that such a large part of Middle Earth was hurt because of the war, but a greater part of him was relieved. Beleriand was no more, but strangely, he did not mourn this fact. Beleriand had been his home for over five hundred years, but those years had been filled with much sorrow and suffering. The ruins of many kingdoms were there, from Doriath to Nargothrond to Gondolin. 

                Best that they start out a new age in a new land.

                A low-voice greeting caused them to turn around. Behind them stood a tall Elf, whose hair was closer to white than silver. 

                "Lord Cirdan," greeted the guide. 

                He inclined his head gravely. "Greetings to you." He turned and bestowed a kind smile upon Glorfindel. "And greetings to you, Glorfindel. I was hard-pressed to believe the rumors of your arrival here."

                Glorfindel shifted slightly. "I have not been able to leave our camp until now."

                The Shipwright shook his head sadly. "'Tis a shame then. To leave so soon after your arrival…there are many here who would have been pleased to see you! Celeborn, Galadriel, and the sons of Eärendil."

                "My lord, I will not be departing with the Host," said Glorfindel bluntly. "I am here to stay." The guide, deciding that his presence was not needed, silently went out of earshot. Glorfindel took the opportunity to explain to Cirdan the reasons of his staying in Middle Earth. 

                Cirdan gave the reborn Elf a contemplative look. "The Valar have their own strange ways of looking over the Firstborn."

                A golden eyebrow shot up. "And I am one of those ways?"

                "A beautiful way," laughed Cirdan. But then sobering, "I have been alive for so long that I am not as much shocked as surprised. I had previously thought that once reborn, you could not leave Valinor again."

                "I had thought that too, but Ingwë informed me otherwise."

                "How is Ingwë? It has been far too long since I have last set eyes upon him." The pair began to stroll leisurely along the coast. 

                Glorfindel smiled as he thought of the high king. "He is as irrepressible as ever, my lord. His son is much like him in that aspect."

                The Shipwright chuckled, his laugh seeming to be an echo of the sea. "Ingwë has been irrepressible since the day he awakened. And I assume his sense of humor is still strange?" at which Glorfindel nodded. "The Vanyar are a strange people."

                "My lord, I am half Vanyar."

                "Yes, I know." Cirdan began to lead him towards a small cove. "I was hoping to entice you into joining me for tea."

                Glorfindel gave the Shipwright an amused look. "On the beach?"

                "Of course. A friend of mine, Oropher, is already there. He is distant kin to Celeborn (7), in fact. In a few days time, he shall be leading some of his more loyal followers east, beyond the mountains." Cirdan paused to pick up a seashell. "There is tension between Oropher and Celeborn. Too much politics and too many felled trees, as well as the fate of the Sindar."

                The golden-haired Elf looked displeased. "I am finding that politics is a constant in life."

                Cirdan chuckled. "So it is. But politics has its uses. Ah," he said, "there he is." Standing in the cove was another Elf, his gaze fixed on the two newcomers. Oropher was tall and sturdy, and his autumn brown hair and bright eyes seemed all the more appropriate considering his love for trees. But his features were stern and commanding, and his very posture was as rigid as the trees he adored. 

                As Cirdan introduced them, Oropher watched Glorfindel with steely eyes – a gaze Glorfindel returned firmly. His lips forming slight smile, Oropher inclined his head. "It is a pleasure to meet the Balrog-slayer." 

                "It is a pleasure to meet one of the most loyal lords of the Sindar," he returned.

                "So you say." Oropher turned to the Shipwright. "I have brought tea leaves."

                Cirdan clapped his hands together. "Excellent. There is some wood in the small alcove over there. We shall have a fire in moments." Happy to have something to do, Glorfindel retrieved the wood and started a fire while the two other lords discussed the merits of tea made from the bark of oak. Oropher had procured some berries, which was a nice accompaniment to the flavorful tea.

                When the fire was finally roaring, the three men sat on logs that had been swept in by the sea. The company around the fire too solemn for Glorfindel's comfort, he looked to Cirdan to make conversation. But the Shipwright did not oblige, instead giving the golden-haired Elf an amused glance. Oropher himself was silent, and Glorfindel, feeling very young, simply felt uncomfortable. Deciding that he should help ease the tension, he thought that perhaps he should speak of something interesting. "Lord Cirdan has told me that you are going east."

                "That is correct."

                "Why?" Beside him, Cirdan looked at the sky pleadingly.

                Oropher leaned forward. "Because you Noldor are a greedy and complicated people, and I prefer the more simple life of our ancestors."

                Not sure if Oropher was serious or not, Glorfindel nodded thoughtfully. "It makes a certain amount of sense, Lord Neldoron (8)." The name slipped out before he knew it, and he sent Cirdan a panicked glance as anger crossed the face of the wood lord. Thingol may have been dead for quite some time, but many still harbored a deep hatred of Quenya. Oropher, apparently, was one of them. 

                The smirk vanished from Cirdan's face. Oropher himself had stilled, and ever so slowly, he leaned back. "That name," he grated, "is in Quenya."

                It was up to Glorfindel to rescue the situation. "Why, so it is! And far more sonorous," chirped Glorfindel.

                The berries flew out of Oropher's hand, and dimly Glorfindel watched the small red shapes make their way to his face. _Good thing I enjoy berries_. "I shall remember that you do not like your name in Quenya," he mumbled. 

                Cirdan calmly handed Glorfindel a piece of cloth as his shoulders shook with silent laughter, and the tension seemed to have dissipated. Even Oropher's eyes were twinkling with amusement. Apparently Oropher had not been as offended as he had seemed to be. "Ahh, so the joke is on me," smiled Glorfindel ruefully. _Unlordly behavior, indeed_.

                "Why, so it is!" chirped Oropher as he mimicked Glorfindel's previous statement. Everyone laughed, this time including Glorfindel.

                Reminded of Ingwë's strange sense of humor, Glorfindel acknowledged that this was Oropher's. This scene strangely reminded him of the merry occasions back in Valinor, where such events were commonplace. 

                Perhaps Middle Earth would not be so different after all.

                 Life did slow down. Now that the war was over, the main concern had been making sure that the refugees left Beleriand safely. There were people to feed, houses to build, clothes to mend, and countless other tasks. Glorfindel was so busy that he did not have time to think deeply about his new life. But there would be a few moments when he would return to a more introspective nature. Only seventy-three years had passed since his death, yet Middle Earth seemed wholly different. 

                But then again, almost everyone whom he had known in his past life was dead. 

                Cultural attitudes, systems of government – these had all changed. He knew, in a flash of foresight, that there would be no vast, hidden kingdoms as in the days of old (9). The Sindar and Noldor were almost one people now, and they mingled in almost everything. His adjustment would be difficult, yes, but Glorfindel knew that the difficulty lay not in the new ideas but in escaping the old ones.

                He wondered what his future would hold. Morgoth was dead but Sauron remained. And while many laughed off the threat that Sauron presented, Glorfindel knew that Sauron was perhaps even wilier than his old master. It was as his sister had told him long ago. _Victory breeds hatred because the conquered are unhappy_. No, Sauron would not sit idly by. 

                It frightened him to think that from now own, his only companion would be Elrond. Ereinion had his own responsibilities, and Galadriel had Celeborn. Elros had chosen to be numbered among mortal men, and so his fate was sundered from Glorfindel's. 

                And ever since Elros had departed, Elrond had seemingly vanished. When he was not at the palace, Elrond had taken to wandering the shores near the sea, perhaps searching not only for his brother but also for his foster-father. Maglor had vanished, Maedhros was dead, Elwing and Eärendil were gone, and as much as Ereinion doted on his cousin's (10) grandson, the king was too caught up in his own affairs to watch over the young Half-Elf all the time. Like Glorfindel, Elrond had no one.  

                Deciding that the distance between them would need to be closed, Glorfindel resolved to seek out Elrond one night. After walking a mile down the shore, Glorfindel finally came upon Elrond standing at the waterline, his face turned toward the ocean. With a burst of realization, Glorfindel understood why it was that Elrond came here every night. Across the sea was Numenor, and high above them shined Eärendil's legacy (11).

                The Elf lord approached him quietly and stood slightly behind him. The pair remained silent for a long while, until the young Elf spoke: "Elros (12) is very excited. He has grand plans for his kingdom. Everyone seems to be building a kingdom now. Cirdan, Ereinion, Elros." Elrond's voice grew bitter. "But Ereinion's and Cirdan's shall always be remembered. My brother's will not."

                Glorfindel understood then what was bothering the young Elf. It was not so much the physical death of Elros but more the eventual fading of Elros's legacy. Ingwë's words came to him suddenly, the words that the high king had said when he had first been re-embodied. Placing a strong hand on the slender shoulder, Glorfindel softened his voice to be as reassuring as possible. "From the earliest days, the Vanyar have believed that lives are immeasurable. A life is like a leaf on a river. It follows the flow of the river, and it changes with the current. As it travels, it comes into contact with other lives and impacts them, and it will change and form new ones.  And when the leaf finally dies, the life continues on, for it still grows in the memories of the other lives it has touched." His eyes rained kindness down upon the Half-Elf. "Elros lives. As long as you remember him, he lives."

                Confusion flitted across the lovely face as the young Elf considered Glorfindel's words. Then Elrond glanced up at him, and those Finwëan eyes – a sharp, piercing gray – looked upon the golden Elf lord with a new understanding. It was as if something in Glorfindel's voice had triggered distant memories. Eärendil telling his sons of Glorfindel's sacrifice, the respect that had appeared in Maglor's eyes when Glorfindel's name had been spoken, the warmth that had colored Galadriel's voice when she spoke of the fierce Balrog-slayer. And through these memories, something new was forged between them – the debt of honor and sacrifice – something that not even death could abolish. 

                "Let us go home, Elrond." 

Author Notes: 

- (1) Where our hero met his death with a balrog. 

- (2) After the theft of the Silmarils, Maedhros hurled both himself and his Silmaril into a fire-filled chasm while Maglor tossed his into the sea and wandered the seashores in despair. 

- (3) See Soledad's "Twisted Paths of Fate" for details on Inglor and his son, Gildor Inglorion :)

- (4) "Eonwë came among them and taught them [the Edain]." _The Silmarillion_, "The Akallabêth."

- (5) After the destruction of the coastal cities of Brithombar and Eglarest, Cirdan established dwellings on the Isle of Balar. But after Beleriand was destroyed, Cirdan moved his people to the Gulf of Lhûn, where he established the Grey Havens.

- (6) When Beleriand was submerged under the sea, the peak of Himring could still be seen from the shore.

- (7) An idea I stole from Soledad. Oropher as another son of Elmo makes Middle Earth genealogy even more deliciously tangled.

- (8) On the name of Oropher: As I found no translations of this name anywhere, I translated this myself to be "Mountain Beech," taking the stem "-pher" referring to beech tree and "oro-" meaning mountain. Neldoron is the Quenyan form of Oropher. "Neldor" – Beech tree, "oron" – mountain. In some texts, "Feren" is also another word for Beech tree in Quenya, but I didn't like the way it sounded when combined. I like this meaning because it seems to make sense when one looks at the tradition of the Sindar to use tree names. This can also be used to claim that Oropher was indeed related to Galadhon,. Considering the fact that Galadhon, Galathil, and Celeborn are such tree-like names, then Oropher fits right in.

- Another factoid, completely unrelated to this story. Since I was so busy figuring out Oropher's name, I took the time to examine his son's as well. Thranduil, if it is a shortened form of "Tharanduil," means "Beyond the Long River." Taking the stems "Thar" meaning beyond, "an" meaning long, and "duil/duin" meaning river, I find this definition to be rather symbolic, especially when one takes into account Thranduil's history of coming from Greenwood, beyond the Anduin. This would also lead credence to the possibility of Thranduil being born after Oropher removed himself to Greenwood.

- (9) Imladris was hidden, but it was not a kingdom like Lindon and Greenwood.

- (10) Ereinion cousin was Idril Celebrindal.

- (11) Eärendil's legacy: "Now fair and marvelous was that vessel [_Vingilot_] made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elven-gems, and the Silamril was bound upon his brow." _The Silmarillion_, "Of the Voyage of Eärendil."

- (12) Elrond's complicated genealogy: his father Eärendil was the son of Tuor and Idril, Gil-galad's cousin. Elrond's mother, Elwing, was the daughter of Nimloth, Celeborn's niece, and Dior, Luthien's son. I have not stated whether Elrond is the older brother, younger brother, or twin brother to Elros. Take your pick. Elros chose to be numbered among men, and he became the first king of Numenor.


End file.
